The electric candles were fluttering again over the blackand-white marble floor, the hammered brass vases on cabinets of Japanese lacquers, the whole stiff black and white and dull red color of that fading room. Willard, following Bennett into the room, stood quietly with his back to the fireplace.
H. M. said: "I saw you in `The Bells.' You weren't Irving, but you were devilish good. And your Othello was the best thing you ever did. Mind tellin' me why you're playin' around in polite drawing-room comedy?"
"Thanks, probably," Willard answered, and looked slowly round, "because it's this sort of drawing-room, and had that sort of occupant."
"I mean, I was only wonderin' if you were another of 'em who walked into her parlor."
"Only into the parlor."
"Uh-huh. That's what I thought. I want to get this right about last night, because you must 'a' been the last person to see her before the murderer got here. Now, when you and Bohun and Rainger came out here with her, where did you make yourselves comfortable? In here?"
"No. In the bedroom. But we didn't make ourselves comfortable; we didn't even sit down. We left after a very few minutes."
"And when you came back here, as they tell me you did, where were you two?"
"Also in the bedroom. I drank a glass of port with her."
"Right," grunted H. M. absently. "Got a match?"
There was a faint flicker of amusement in Willard's eyes. "Sorry. I gave away my last box to Marcia last night, and I don't carry about that colored kind they supply at the house. Will a lighter do?"
"Just as well," nodded H. M. The corners of his mouth turned down again. He advised gently: "Don't ever get the notion that I'm tryin' to be clever. It's bad policy to advertise suspicion. Either on my part or yours. If I'd had any doubts, I'd have asked for a lighter to begin with. Point of fact, I wanted to look at that fireplace…"
Snapping on the lighter Willard handed him, he looked carefully at the fluffy gray wood-ashes and the few stumps of charred wood. He put his hand under the broad flue, and craned his neck to peer up under it.
"Pretty strong draught. Notice that? That chimney's as big as a house. H'm, yes. They got iron steps for the sweep. Still, I don't suppose. "
His dull eye wandered out over the hearth and the edge of the carpet.
"Other room now. I'll keep this lighter for a minute."
Willard went ahead, reached to the left of the bedroom door, and switched on the lights. Although Bennett nerved himself to keep steady, the sight was less disturbing than he had feared. There was a businesslike look about the little room with the many mirrors and the high red-canopied bedstead. A stale reek of flashlight-powder still hung in the air; white grains from the fingerprint dust, clung to most surfaces where prints might have been found. Except for the fact that the body was now laid out on the bed and covered with a sheet, Potter's men had replaced the other objects just as they had been when Bennett first saw them. The fragments of the decanter lay at the edge of the carpet before the fireplace; fragments and crushed pieces of the glasses were still on the hearth; the poker had been put back with its tip in the little heap of ashes; the one chair upright, the other overturned to the right of the fireplace, the overturned tabouret and the scattered burnt matches — these things again played the dumb-show of murder.
"H’mm" said H. M.
He blundered in his near-sighted fashion over to the fireplace, where he examined the ashes carefully. In peering up the chimney with the aid of the lighter, he endangered his tall hat, and growled curses to himself. Next he picked up the poker, snorted, and put it down again. With infinite labor he got down to blink at the crushed fragments of glass, which seemed to put him in a little better humor. The match-ends, nearly burned down to the end of the stem, engaged his attention next. He moved over to examine a curtained recess containing wearing-apparel, and pawed over its contents until he found a silver gown. After one glance into the primitive bathroom, he came back to the middle of the room, where he lifted one finger and pointed malevolently at his two companions in the doorway.
"Dummies!" roared H. M.
The dummies looked at each other.
"Yes, I mean you," amplified H. M., still stabbing his finger at them. "You and Masters and everybody else who's been out here. Ain't anybody got any brains nowadays? To mention only one item in a whole chart of clues especially provided for you, don't a single fleetin' glance at that fireplace tell you anything?"
"Well, sir," said Bennett, "if you mean that the murderer made his entrance and exit by crawling up and down the chimney, it seems entirely feasible. But I shouldn't think it would do him much good. The problem is how he came to and left the pavilion. I mean, even if he got up to the roof he'd still have to cross a hundred feet of snow. So far as the Santa-Claus business is concerned, he'd have found it less complicated by simply walking to the front door."
H. M. swelled.
"So you're givin' the old man sauce, are you? Tryin' to sauce me, hey? That's gratitude for you, that is! All right. All right! Now just for that, young man, I won't tell you what I did mean. Haa. Haa, that'll fix you! — Point o' fact, I wasn't thinking about the chimney very much at all."
"Exactly what," said Willard, "does `very much at all' mean, Sir Henry?"
H. M. nodded malevolently. 'I'll tell you what it means. It means what my old friend Richter said when he was conductin' the London orchestra, and the second flute played the same sour note twice over in the same place at rehearsal. And Richter he slammed his baton down on the floor, and he said, `You, secgonde vlutel I can stand your damma nonsense occasionally then and now; but sometimes, always, by God nevairl' That's what I feel about this, and I'm goin' to tell Masters so when he gets here. I didn't come here to get insulted. Now I'm goin' to ask some questions…"
He waddled over to the bed, lifted a comer of the sheet, and made a brief examination. The mere lifting of the sheet brought another atmosphere into this cold room. A little light from the big window at the side of the bed, and flickering with the shadow of snowflakes, fell across a face they had sponged off with water, and whose dark hair had been arranged behind her bead…
Bennett, who had turned away, looked back to see H. M.'s small eyes fixed sharply on him from his wizard-like stoop over that still beauty.
"A quarter past three o'clock," said H. M., "is about the time she died… Now, when you came in here this morning, was the blind on this window up or down? Think back, and make sure."
"It was up. I definitely remember that, because I tried to put up the window to let some air in, and remembered that you weren't supposed to touch anything in cases of this kind."
H. M. replaced the sheet and peered out of the window.
`The windows of somebody's livin'-quarters over the stables are in a direct line with this. You noticed- that, hey?
.. All right. Now go over there and show me how she was lyin' on the floor when you first saw her. I know you'll feel like a fool, but get down and do it… Uh-huh. All right; you can get up. That would mean a good many of those burnt matches must have been scattered close to her. As though they'd been aimed at the fireplace… Now, then: when you came in, did it look as though she'd gone to bed? Was the bed disturbed?"
"I don't think so."
"Excuse me for butting in," said Willard rather restlessly, "but it seems to me that there's been a devil of a fuss about those burnt matches when they may mean nothing at all."
"Think so, hey?" inquired H. M., stiffening. "You got an idea somebody sat here lightin' innumerable cigarettes and then tossin' the match-ends on the floor? One match burned nearly down to a stump, or even two, I might admit as rather a lengthy light for a cigarette; but twelve or fifteen of 'em argued that somebody was strikin' 'em in the dark:'
"But put it this way," urged Willard. "Suppose it was innocent. Suppose that when Bohun discovered the body, coming on it all of a sudden in half light, he bent over and struck a match to make sure..:'
H. M. puffed his cheeks in a
nd out. "Why, aside from the fact that he said he didn't, and there seems to be no earthly reason why he should have denied it, a man don't need a dozen matches to make sure somebody's dead. Besides, I rather imagine it was light enough at that time to see without 'em… wasn't it?' He swung sharply. Bennett felt that there was an underlying purpose in the question aside from what it seemed.
"Yes," he said, "just. I remember noticing how the light from the window fell directly on her."
"But, damn it," snapped Willard, "she wasn't killed in the dark!"
H. M., for some reason, was suddenly imbued with a fantastic jollity. He set his hat on the side of his head; he was almost affable.
"Oh; it's a funny business, son. An exceedingly rummy business. Why does the Visitor strike matches in the dark? Why are the two fires exactly the same? Why does the Visitor get mad and put two drinking-glasses down on the hearth and stamp on 'em? — By the way, you didn't do that, did you?"
"What?"
"Uh-huh. I'd better point that out to you. Come over here and look. You see that decanter? Notice how heavy it is? Notice where it is? — not on the hearthstone, but on the carpet. I defy you to smash that decanter merely by upsettin' a low tabouret and havin' it hit the floor. The Visitor busted it, son… Now look at those smashed glasses. Did you ever see any parts of a glass crushed by fallin' on the floor? I'll lay you a fiver you didn't. They're on the stone, where the Visitor put 'em and deliberately mashed 'em."
"But in a struggle-'
"Ho ho," said H. M., settling his coat over his shoulders. "Try the experiment some time. Put a round drinking-glass on the floor, imitate somebody staggerin' over the room in a struggle, and see if you will land a bull's-eye on one glass. They roll, son. They're as slippery as eels. And when you discover the probabilities of your breakin' not one glass, but two at the same time, I think you'll find that the old man's right. Did I hear somebody say we're not any better off than we were before. Now, about these chimneys…"
They had not heard the door to the drawing-room open, or any steps there. But they felt a cold current of air, which stirred the ashes in the fireplace, and (as Bennett could see from the corner of his eye) the sheet over Marcia Tait's body. There was something so eerie about it that for a moment nobody turned round. It was like the thin voice which spoke across the room.
"So," said the voice, "somebody has thought of the chimney at last? I must congratulate him."
Maurice Bohun, his throat swathed round in a wool muffler, and a raffish-looking tweed cap pulled over one eye, stood leaning on his stick in the doorway. His glazed stare wandered over to the figure on the bed; then he removed the cap with a gently satiric gesture, and became all deprecation. Behind him towered a bewildered and savage-looking Masters, who was making signals over his shoulder.
"But even if it has already occurred to you, which is surprising," said Maurice, with a curious snap of his jaws, "I think I can supply more complete details than anyone. Do you mind coming into the other room. I–I cannot stand the sight of death!"
He backed away suddenly.
"Mind, sir," Masters said over his shoulder, and appealing violently to H. M. "I don't say I believe this. I don't say it's true. But if you'll listen to what Mr. Bohun has to say…" "My humblest thanks, inspector."
" then there may be something in it. At least it explains a lot of things that've been putting the wind up us. And in a way I should think was rather tit-for-tat and sauce for the goose…"
"Don't gibber, Masters," said H. M. austerely. "I detest gibbering. What the devil is all this, anyhow? Can't a man have any peace without somebody rushin' in and gabblin' nonsense?"
Maurice leaned forward a little.
"You must excuse the chief inspector," he protested. "In his somewhat unliterary fashion, he is referring to what is known as poetic justice. I agree. Mr. Carl Rainger, from the depths of sheer spite, attempted this morning to fasten Marcia Tait's murder on my brother John. He provided for this impossible situation a clumsy explanation which would not stand scrutiny for five minutes."
He paused, still backing away with his dead-glazed eyes fixed on the quiet figure. Then he snapped:
"If you will come into the other room, Sir Henry, I will undertake to show you exactly how this Mr. Carl Rainger himself killed Miss Tait, and attempted by a clumsy subterfuge to escape my notice. I did not wish to speak to you in the house, in case it should entail unpleasantness. You will accompany me? I thank you. I — cannot endure the sight of death."
He backed so swiftly out of the room that he stumbled, and supported himself only by clinging to the frame of the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Second Design for Hanging
At half-past six that evening, Bennett was sitting in a lumpy arm-chair before the fire in his own room, without energy to finish dressing for dinner. His brainfelt literally heavy from weariness; draughts played in the creaky room; and Katharine had not yet returned from Dr. Wynne's, although she had telephoned that John would definitely pull through. Telephone messages: "This is Lord Canifest's secretary speaking. His Lordship will be quite unable to undertake a motor-journey at this moment, due to a heart-attack experienced last night, and is confined to his room. Should there be any doubt of this in the mind of the policeman who had occasion to 'phone, it is suggested that he communicate with His Lordship's physician. " Blaah, blaah, blaah.”
Bennett looked up at a murky painting hung over the mantelpiece, and down at the studless shirt in his lap. Murder, suicide, or holocaust, the business of calories and black ties must go on as usual. Maurice was in very high feather tonight; he had even issued orders that some special sherry was to be served, in place of cocktails, for the benefit of Sir Henry Merrivale. Sir Henry Merrivale had consented to spend the night at the White Priory. In other words (Bennett thought) what in the devil's name was on H. M.’s mind?
Which brought up the worst and most insistent question: was Maurice right about the murder? While Bennett and Masters and H. M. were walking back from the pavilion, with Bohun and Willard a little distance behind, H. M. had relieved his mind with a few sotto voce comments about Maurice, Maurice's character and Maurice's habits, which sizzled the ear of the listener with their force and sulphurousness. But that was all. He had only grunted when Maurice expounded his theory of the murder. He had sat back with a wooden face, under the spurious candlelight in the drawing-room of the pavilion, while Maurice deftly wove a halter for Carl Rainger. Masters had been impressed. So, evidently, had Willard. Bennett was willing to admit that he himself was more than impressed. But H. M. had been neither one thing nor the other.
"You say," he growled, "Rainger's still dead to the world and in his room? Right-ho. Let him keep. I s'pose you're not afraid to face him with this story?"
Well, then? That H. M. believed this explanation Bennett doubted. But the thing was so ingenious, and so plausible, that it appealed all the more for its retributive effect. When Rainger flung out an accusation on the strength of John Bohun's tracks, he had touched a snake that could sting in return. Again Bennett heard Maurice speaking quietly, levelly, with something like a similar warning whir in his voice.
"I knew this morning that this man Rainger was in all probability guilty, and I could have told you how he had done it." Here his little head had turned snakily towards Masters. "You may recall, inspector, that I intimated a possibility of explaining the problem that troubled you? Ah yes. I fancy you do remember. Of course it will be obvious why I could not speak?"
Masters blurted: "I don't know what to make of you, sir, and that's a fact. Yes, I know why. You wondered whether this man Rainger's business proposition was on the level. And if he did mean to offer you some fantastic job at some fantastic salary, you mean to say you were willing to cover him up in a murder?"
Maurice had only looked mildly puzzled and troubled.
"Surely it was the logical thing, was it not?"
"And you believe in this very fishy offer of Rainger's?"
H. M. blinked sleepily. A sound came from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Oh, maybe. Maybe. My sight ain't as good as it might be, but I noticed somethin' gray and ghosty floatin' around outside the door; and I thought you might as well know. Well?"
Trying to force these images to the back of his mind, Bennett got up and stalked about the room as he continued dressing. He would put that problem aside until he could discuss it with somebody: 'preferably Katharine, since the tangle involved Louise Carewe. H. M. had insisted that Louise should not be questioned until this evening, and Maurice (even afire with his theory) had been content to let it rest.
The trouble was. He had adjusted his tie, and was getting into his coat, when somebody knocked at the door.
"May I come in?" said Katharine's voice. "I know it's the wrong time, but I had to see you. Everything's all right; I've just left John. He's still unconscious, but he's in no danger."
She was hatless, and wore a heavy tweed coat still powdered with snow. The cold had brought brilliant color into her cheeks.
"In fact, I've got good news all around; surprising news. I've looked in on Louise. She's up and about, and she'll come down to dinner. It's a funny thing, but I feel better than I have for years." She came up to the fire, spreading out her hands, and tossed her hair back as she looked over her shoulder. "By the way, what is the matter with Uncle Maurice?"
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